


I Could Hear the Ocean

by WingsMadeOfTin



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Religion, UST, monks being adorable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsMadeOfTin/pseuds/WingsMadeOfTin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athelstan has a new skill (much to his dismay), Floki has a good long laugh, and Ragnar is favored of the Gods but sometimes that is as much a curse as a blessing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings will no doubt evolve as the story continues. I've no idea where this is going, and it's my first time dipping into Vikings, so bear with me.

Gyda notices first.  She doesn't say anything at the time, because she isn't sure what, exactly, is going on.  Only that she is watching Athelstan when the priest suddenly does something very strange. 

She often does this -- watch Athelstan.  Not for the reasons Bjorn does (he's waiting for the priest to mess up some how, so he can go and crow about it Father, as though someone is keeping score of who is more worthy of his attentions) and not for the reasons her parents do (she doesn't really understand the reasons her parents do, though she thinks she knows a few of them but it seems terribly complicated sometimes.)  Just that the priest is funny, and interesting, and he answers her questions with the funniest stories she's ever heard.  Also, the goats like him.  Gyda has learned to put a great deal of stock in the intuition of the animals.

So she thinks rather kindly of Athelstan, as though he's some sort of adopted uncle or very well trained friendly guard dog, and she's somewhat familiar with his mannerisms (and they are very odd, to her, but they seem to suit the man, the same way his once-bald head did, though she does admit all the same he looks much better with his hair growing back in. Soon he'll have hair long enough for some proper braidings, and she intends to teach him how to do that.) when quite suddenly Athelstan does something, as said, very strange.  He's been sitting off by himself, a pile of cloth at his feet and a shirt in his lap; she recognizes it as Bjorn's, with a tear in the sleeve where he'd snagged himself in a bush.  So he's mending, which is not uncommon.  Athelstan is good at that, her mother says it's because he's so patient.  (Gyda is less patient, but her mother also says that she was much the same way in her youth, and grew up to be the greatest shield-maiden there is, so Gyda doesn't think there's anything wrong with being a bit impatient.  Just a bit.)  He's mending, and he isn't finished yet, but he suddenly looks up and out away toward nothing, puts the shirt aside -- needle and all -- and stands up.  He looks confused.  No, a bigger word for confused; he looks _bewildered_ , and sort of… wanders, off in that direction for a bit, and then stops and stands there, head cocked, staring off at the sky.

That's all.  Just stands there.

She watches, and it lasts a few minutes, and then a few _more_ , and when it's done Athelstan sort of shakes himself and looks around and then goes back to the mending as though nothing ever happened.

But something _did_ happen.  Gyda just doesn't know what.

 

\---

 

She mentions it off-hand to her brother ( _"Has the priest seemed off to you, lately?"  "He is always off."  "But I mean lately, Bjorn."  "Go and ask him, if you're so worried.  I have better things to do."_ ) but that's no help at all.  She's almost willing to write it off as just some thing that the Saxon men do that she will never understand when it happens again, and this time she is not the only one to see.  

They are all of them gathered for a celebration, because it is nearly Gyda's birthday and it is, in fact, Floki's.  They are both children of the early Fall.  She has always liked Floki -- he picks her up and tickles her until she shrieks, and he tells stories like no one else and when he is in good spirits he reminds her of a giant raven, all angles and flapping wings and too-bright eyes.  He has come to share dinner with them; he and her father are speaking about longboats (Floki speaks about boats and gets a look to him that is very much like Father when he and Mother are going to have intercourse all evening) and Bjorn is sipping ale and pretending to like the taste.  Mother is half-listening, watching the meat cook, and they are all around the fire, enjoying the heat as the night grows colder.  Even Athelstan is with them, sitting to the side a bit and listening to the men talk about boats.  

He always listens when her father speaks, Gyda has notices.  Even when the conversation doesn't involve him, or isn't about him, it seems like a little bit of Athelstan's attention is permanently fixed on whatever Father is saying or doing.  She isn't sure if this is because he started out as a slave or not.  Secretly she thinks it's something more, but that isn't the sort of thing you ask.

"I have been to Floki's house, you know."  Bjorn takes a seat beside her, his ale in hand.  He hasn't even made a dent in it.  "It's a strange place.  Too frightening for a girl like you."

She side-eyes him.  Bjorn has been a bit more serious since Father took him to the Thing, and she's missed the more playful parts of her brother.  Such as trying to spook her with tales of Floki's supposed mysterious life.  " _You_ managed to survive it," she replies.  "I should not have a problem."

He snorts, wets his lips with ale and stares at the fire.  She looks over to Athelstan again, and Bjorn's voice is a little lower as he says, "I wouldn't get too interested if I were you, Gyda."

Immediately she replies, "You are not me," and then furrows her brow a little and looks at him.  "What are you even talking about?"

"The stupid priest," Bjorn says, gesturing with his cup.  "Don't get too interested.  It isn't as though you would ever be able to marry him, you know."

She stares, hoping her expression makes it plain how stupid what her brother has just said really is.  "I don't want to marry _anyone_ ," she says, "and the day I do it will not be to someone like him."  She may as well marry a puppy!  She will be a shield-maiden, warrior of Freyja.  Her brother is so strange sometimes… "And he's family, secondly, and he isn't _stupid_ , thirdly."

"He can be awfully stupid," Bjorn argues, "You have to admit sometimes."

"… He is new to our ways," she says, and that's the closest she'll get to his opinion.  "I told you, I like him.  I am glad he's here."  She reaches for his ale and he jerks it away from her, spilling some over the brim and scowling as she smirks.  "You're glad, too; you just hate to admit it because Father puts him in charge when they're gone."

Bjorn scowls at her, his nostrils flaring, and the expression is so far from frightening that she has to giggle, leaning over to try and kiss his cheek and laughing harder when he yanks himself out of reach with a look of horror.  They both throw a glance at their parents, to ensure a scolding isn't heading their way, but Mother is just shaking her head as she gets up to head for the house, and Father is still speaking with Floki.  Beyond them, Athelstan suddenly startles, and Gyda's giggles cut off entirely as she watches his face go confused and then blank.  He turns away from them, toward the trees, rising to his feet and swaying slightly before he takes a few steps forward.  He moves like a man too deep in his cups, she thinks, biting her lip.  He's doing it again.

"He's doing it again."  Bjorn's low voice makes her jump and whip her head around to stare at him, because never before has her brother been able to read her thoughts, but she sees him staring at Athelstan and realizes that is not at all what he'd been doing.  

"You've seen him do this before."  Her fingers rise up to her lips, a little _oh_ as her stomach drops and twists.  "Bjorn?"

"Twice," her brother admits, his eyes still on the priest's back.  "It is just another stupid Saxon thing.  Like when he tried to shave his own scalp off.  Ignore it, Gyda."

But she can't.  This is not some 'stupid Saxon thing', and she should have done this after the first time, muttering a few angry words at herself as she gets to her feet.  The priest _is_ new to their ways -- he is adrift here, carried by the waves and her father to a land he doesn't understand, and when he thinks no one can see he often looks so lost and frightened that her heart could break for him.  She should have been watching more.  It is a shield-maiden's duty to watch over her family.  

Athelstan is family.

Her brother calls after her but she doesn't pause, walking with purpose over to where Floki is still sharing some wicked story with her father, his hands making a suggestion of a woman's curves in the air.  Her father lets out a booming laugh, his eyes bright, still snapping with humor as he turns to look at her.  

"Gyda," he greets.  She stares at him, swallowing, until the grin slides off of his face and even Floki turns to peer.  "Gyda?  What is it?"

She meets his eyes, as serious as she has ever been.

"Something is wrong with Athelstan."

 

\---

 

It isn't often that Ragnar gets to see Floki, other than the summer raids, and it's good to sit with his friend, share stories over food and drink, reminisce about the past and dream large for the future.  Many of the men shirked Floki in the past.  Many still do.  His odd mannerisms seemed to make everyone except Ragnar uncomfortable.  He'd never minded them at all -- they were a part of what made Floki unique.  He would no more belittle a stag for its antlers; a crow for its wide black wings.

It is because Floki tells the most ridiculous stories that Ragnar has long ceased to pay attention to his surroundings.  He knows his children are safe, of course, he will always know when they are not, and dimly he can sense that Lagertha is in the house, but the matter of the monk he has let slide out of his perception.  They are on his own lands, and they are safe.  It don't seem necessary.  

And then his daughter steps into his line of sight and proves him wrong. 

(She is, in this way, very often just like her mother.)

Because it is Gyda, he immediately takes the matter seriously.  His daughter is slim and shy and serious, with a level head and steady hand and her mother's scowl.  She does not raise alarm when there is no reason -- almost the opposite of Bjorn, who tends to assume the worst and fly into a panic at the slightest provocation ( _Father, a sea serpent!_ when his fishing line catches a grumpy, tugging hulk of an eel; _Father, Mother is dying!_ , when Lagertha had a fever that had her vomiting up what seemed like everything she'd eaten that season; _Father, it is Fenrir!  Run!_ , when a starving wolf had wandered to their home, eyeing the pigs.)  But Gyda holds matters in silent until she's certain of a true problem, and then has the wisdom to seek help.  He has no idea how his daughter came to be so wise.  Certainly it's no trait of _his_ (though she has inherited his curiosity, he's pleased to see, because Ragnar values that in himself, would wish his children to be the same.)

So he twists at his seat, scans their surroundings until he spots the monk.  Athelstan is a slim, pale figure standing a bit aways, swaying slightly as though he's listening to a song on the wind.  His face is turned upward to the sky.

"Priest," he calls out.  There is no change.  Floki is turning to look now as well, making a little noise in his throat: _Hrmhmn?_ , and when Ragnar pushes to his feet he also gets up.

"Athelstan," firmer this time, a whipcrack, bark of a word.  And nothing.  He narrows his eyes, reaching down to set a hand on Gyda's shoulder.  "Get your mother," he murmurs, gives her a little nudge before striding the short distance to where his… (His what?  His priest, his monk? His captive?  His slave?  His treasure?  There is no word he can find to sum up this strange relationship.  He wonders if there is a word in any language that would.) … To Athelstan.  He stops just short, coming around to stare at him.

Athelstan's eyes are glassy, unfocused.  They stare out toward the sky, catch the light and are turned to a pale sea-glass color.  The wind tousles gentle at his dark curls (his hair is growing back, in the center where it was once shaved; Ragnar thinks it suits him better this way, would see him with braids in the vikings fashion -- that would please him, he thinks.)  His lips are parted, just slightly.  He makes no acknowledgment of either Ragnar or Floki, who is coming up alongside of him, a fidgeting collection of limbs.

"Is he possessed?" Bjorn asks loudly. 

He really needs to spend more time with his son.

"It's some sort of fit," Ragnar decides, and he reaches forward to grab Athelstan's arm when Floki reaches out, snake-quick, and snatches his wrist.

He says, "Don't," and his eyes are alit on Athelstan in a way he has never focused on anyone, not that Ragnar has ever seen.  Most of how Floki sees the world seems to be divided into categories of Can I Sleep With It?, Will It Burn?, or Not Worth My Time.   

"Floki," he growls, gives his arm a shake -- his friend does not let go.  If anything his fingers cinch tighter, reed-like fingers possessed of an unusual strength.  Suitable, for a viking, not as strong as Ragnar, but still surprising sometimes for a man of such stature.  "What is it?"

"He's listening."  Floki's head is tilted to the side, his lips curling to a grin.  "I know this look, Ragnar.  I have seen it before.  I think I have worn it myself, a time or two, but I cannot see myself, so who knows for sure, hmm?"  He releases Ragnar's wrist, fingertips lingering before he pulls away.  He dances a circle around Athelstan (who never even flinches, never even _sees_ , and it sends a chill through his body like a winter wind) and laughs, throws his head back and _laughs_.  "Someone is speaking to him," he declares.  

Brow furrowed, gaze flicking from Floki to the monk, between the two. " _Who_ is speaking to him?"

Floki wriggles; clasps his hands beneath his chin and leans in to peer at the monk as though he were leering at a lover.  Ragnar feels himself tense, a jolt of something possessive shot through him, but before he can pull Floki away from the monk ( _his_ monk) the boat-builder replies:

" _The Gods_."


	2. Chapter 2

 

" _My_ Athelstan?" Ragnar demands for what must be the fifth time.  It hasn't become any more sensible.  Floki isn't any less amused. 

"I have always known the Gods have senses of humor," he says.  "Why else do you think I am always laughing?  _Your_ Athelstan," and the name is clumsy on Floki's tongue, he says it like a taunt.  " _Yours_ , indeed.  I think, he is more than a slave to you.  What does your wife think of this?"

"She… is not opposed."

Floki leans back, his mouth making a little ' _o_ ', his eyes gone wide.  "Were you not going to invite me?" he asks, sounding utterly scandalized.  Ragnar ignores him.  Over the years he has become very good at ignoring Floki, when he must.  The important part is knowing when.

Lagertha comes out then, wiping her hands on a cloth, Gyda close at her heels, frowning as she joins them.  "What is this?" she asks.  "What is wrong with him?"

"Floki says he is listening to the Gods."  He feels a rush of gratitude, as though things will be all right now that his wife has arrived.  Athelstan will be all right, if only because Lagertha will demand it.  He looks to her.  

She blinks once.  Floki is grinning at them both, his hands fluttering close to his chest.

"Well."  She lifts her chin, studies the monk for a moment.  "How long has this been going on?"

"At least a week."  Gyda, staring at Athelstan with eyes gone large and worried.  "Longer, if Bjorn saw something before I did."

The blonde boy glowers at them from where he still sits near the fire, and shrugs.  "Maybe… ten days?  I thought he was just being lazy, or strange.  How should I know which of his strange habits are strange enough to worry about?"

"This doesn't make sense."  Ragnar crosses in front of Athelstan again, steps right in his face and scowls when the monk, again, fails to take notice.  Or twitch, or… or anything.  Somehow that is the worst part: that even _he_ cannot seem to reach him when he's like this.  He should be able to reach Athelstan any time.  He should be able to make Athelstan see him.  He _owns_ him, doesn't he?  He sailed across the sea, blessed by Odin, and plucked him from the lax hands of a dead Christian god.  He wonders if perhaps Floki is wrong -- if this is not some sort of trance, but rather if there is something wrong with Athelstan's body, something that makes him so unreachable.  The thought inspires a feeling like a tight fist at his stomach, twisting, a cold fear that worms through his gut, and he has to look away to breathe.

A raven perches on a low fence.  Watching.

Just like that, his doubt is wiped away.

_Oh, Athelstan._   

He looks back to the monk, humbled.  This is out of his hands.  "How long will it last?"

"How much do they have to say?" Floki counters.  "He will wake when they are finished speaking, and not a moment sooner."

No sooner has he finished the word than Athelstan suddenly blinks, eyes clearing; he looks up and jerks back in surprise to see Ragnar so close, to have so many eyes peering.

"What-"  His voice is rough, as though he'd been sleeping.

"Athelstan!"  Gyda darts forward and attaches herself to his side.  "We were so worried!" 

The monk looks down, lifting a hand to set on Gyda's head gently, and it's clear enough that he's utterly bewildered.  "Worried.. about what?" he asks, looking from her to the rest of them, his gaze lingering at Ragnar's.  "What's happened?"  His gaze darts over to the benches a few time, toward the fire, where they had all been seated when he wandered off.  

Ragnar stares at him a moment, pushes out an exhale and looks to Floki.  Floki, who is grinning as though he's found the greatest joke in the universe, as though Athelstan is the most marvelous thing he's ever seen, standing here before them in a hand-me-down dressing shirt and Ragnar's old pants, taken in where necessary because the monk was so slim, so slight that he was as a child swimming in a man's clothing.

"Come and sit," he says, reaching out to set his hand at the back of Athelstan's neck, fingers curling.  There is a force inside of him that is either protective or possessive (very likely both) and demands that he pick the monk up, carry him bodily into the house and wrap him in blankets, toss him onto the bed and stand guard over him.  _His_ Athelstan. 

He hears a croaking _caw_ , the flutter of black wings as the raven departs.

"Sit," he sighs, and tugs Athelstan over toward the fire.  "I have a feeling you are not going to like this."

 

 

Athelstan does not like it.

To be fair, at first Athelstan doesn't _believe_ it.  He very nearly laughs in Ragnar's face, though some deep-seated survival instinct seems to step in and slam his lips closed, so that the priest's face contorts and his nose scrunches, as though he's fighting a sneeze, until he looks away and scratches at his face until the moment passes.  "I'm sorry," he says, "I don't think I understood you correctly.  Can you say it again?"

All of them are sitting around the fire, which Bjorn has stoked a bit with more kindling.  Lagertha has pulled the meat from the flames and is carving it with Gyda's help (his daughter is startlingly good with a knife, he notes from his peripheral), and the smell of the meat, sizzling and dripping, makes Ragnar's stomach growl and grumble.  Athelstan's gaze dips down toward it and he goes still for a moment, like he's heard a wild animal.  Like he fears Ragnar may devour him.

(If he were honest with himself, and Ragnar makes a point to always be such, he must admit that the idea has occurred to him.  Though it would be a devouring in a much different manner, and by the end they would both be sated.  He has spoken thus to Lagertha, who only quirked a wicked smile and said it might be fun to watch the monk squirm.  They hadn't offered their union to the monk since that first time, when he'd declined, and since then Lagertha seems to think of a threesome as a great chance to tease.  But Ragnar had been serious, and the idea has never left him.) 

"You have been spoken to by the Gods," Ragnar says again.  "At least four times now, and the latest only moments ago.  Do you remember none of it?"

Athelstan gives them all an incredulous look, the sort that suggests he believes they're joking with him, waiting for the laughter.  It doesn't come, of course, and after another minute he starts to shake his head in denial.

"Whatever you think, I'm certain that's not-" 

"What were you doing, not five minutes ago?" Ragnar interrupts, leaning forward; his elbows on his knees.  "You were sitting down, before.  You stood, and went over there.  What were you doing?" 

He opens his mouth to reply, only… no reply comes.  His mouth closes and opens twice, like a stranded fish, and the skin around his eyes tightens as no answer comes to him.  Ragnar can see the confusion, can actually _see_ it cloud the monk's eyes, the fear that rides behind it.  "You do not remember getting up," he guesses, and is confirmed by Athelstan going a shade paler.  "You do not remember standing with your head tilted toward the sky."

"No," he admits.  "N-no.  But… What you are suggesting, that's not-"

Floki cuts in. "I have seen it before.  I know the look of it.  I think, I must look much the same when I speak with the trees.  Might it be you choose _not_ to remember?"

Athelstan grimaces, pulling back a bit where he sits.  "It isn't possible.  On the few occasions that God has spoken to man, in scripture, it isn't anything like what you've described, and certainly He would not have reason to speak to _me._ "

"Not _your_ god," Floki snorts.  Ragnar shoots him a warning look -- this topic must always be approached carefully, with Athelstan; the boy's faith is as much his armor as it is his axe.  It is all he chooses to take with him against the world.  Thus far it has proven to be ineffective at best, but still Athelstan will not set it aside for anything.  Ragnar would rather tread carefully than further insult or alienate the priest toward their ways.  He would see reason, in time.  

"The meat is ready."  Gyda has come over, stands awkward as she announces and glances twice at Athelstan.  "Mother says this is a discussion best held with full stomaches and clear heads, and to shut up now and eat."

Bjorn is on his feet with a _whoop_ , his hunger always an issue (Ragnar can remember that age, and growing, and the bottomless pit of a stomach he had been; he must begin to watch Bjorn for other signs of his reaching manhood, he realizes.  Gods help the girls of their lands…) but Ragnar and Floki linger, watching Athelstan for anything further.  He shrinks slightly, curls into himself.  It's easy for him to hide in Ragnar's old clothing, too big for him at all the seams. 

"I'm sorry," he says in his delicate, lilting manner of speech.  Their language on his tongue sounds more like poetry.  It had stopped Ragnar in his tracks, back in that chapel on the foreign shore.  "I cannot believe in what you say.  The gods you speak of, they don't ex-"

Floki moves quickly, darting forward to slap his hand over Athelstan's mouth before the word can be finished.  Ragnar has already reached out to grab Floki's arm, an instinct that triggered as soon as he registered the movement.  Athelstan is blinking, startled, his eyes gone wide.

"Do not," Floki says, and his voice has gone soft as assassin's footsteps, "say such things.  The gods do not enjoy to hear it said that they are as nothing, and they have already proven that they see you, little priest.  They are paying attention.  Take care not to anger them."  He watches, waits until Athelstan bobs a short nod, and then pulls his hand away and turns to blink at Ragnar, guileless.  "What did you think I was going to do?" he asks, and grins.  "And why would you think you could stop me?"

" _Meat,"_ Gyda says again, staring at all of them with a very impressive glare (Gods above, she will be her mother all over again soon, and then Odin save him and Bjorn, Ragnar thinks), and Floki this time seems to find the wisdom in getting up to obey, follows after her to load his plate with slabs of dinner.

"In a moment," Ragnar assures her.  She huffs a little, gives them both a more concerned look before trotting back toward the table where the meat has been carved.  Lagertha is waiting there, watching them with the carving knife in hand.  Bjorn is attempting to ingest an impossible amount of meat.  He looks upon them all fondly before turning back to his monk, who is touching his lips with a sour expression.  "He means well," Ragnar says.

"I've no doubt of that," Athelstan says.  Then he pauses and adds, "That's not true at all, actually.  But I would like to believe you, so…"

Ragnar nods.  "So."

"So… what can be done?"  The priest fidgets where he sits, looks down at his hands.  "It is true, it seems I have time, actions, that i cannot account for.  But if I can't remember, then it hardly matters who, if anyone, or _what_ , is … is speaking to me."  His mouth twists to an unhappier shape.  "The last thing I want to be is a concern, or a bother."

"Your place here is not in question," Ragnar tells him.  "It's not as though I would punish you for something like this, that's out of your control."

"That's… that's not what I meant.  Perhaps at first, yes, I would have worried about something like that.  I only meant, I truly do want to be helpful here.  You, and Lagertha… the children, as well.  You've… you've made this a home for me."  He ducks his head, and when he looks up at Ragnar through his dark lashes, through the curly fringe of his hair, for a moment it is all Ragnar can do not to reach forward and pick him up, toss him over a shoulder and carry him away to somewhere dark and safe where he might set him, store him, _keep_ him.  

Devour him.

(The idea, perhaps, will never leave him.)

Instead he reaches forward, a hand clasping Athelstan's shoulder; firm, bracing.  "This is your home," he agrees.  "And we will see what we can do to resolve your troubles as we would with any member of the family.  Don't think it a bother, Athelstan.  If this is a gift from the gods, we should treat it as such.  We will figure this out, and rejoice in it."

"Figure it out, how?"

"You cannot remember, yes?"

"Not a thing," Athelstan sighs. 

Rangar's smile widens.  He claps his shoulder once more, and then stands.  The meat is waiting, and he is very hungry.  "Then we find a way to open your memory.  Just after dinner."

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The household of Ragnar Lothbrok spends the evening attempting to come up with ways that might help Athelstan remember any of his time spent in trances, or any of the messages given to him whilst he stood unawares.  

It doesn't exactly go well.

Not for lack of trying.Each of them offers a few different ideas, save for Bjorn who can't seem to come up with anything that doesn't center around bashing Athelstan in the head with various blunt objects.Gyda seems to think they ought to try and tell the Gods that something isn't working out quite right and perhaps they ought to try a different language, or perhaps a different vessel for their words, but Floki points out the danger there: that if there is a problem in the lines of communication, it is surely not with _the Gods_ , and suggesting anything along that point would be inviting their wrath.  

Ragnar's opinion is that Athelstan does not _want_ to remember, and so he does not.He has tried, then, to coerce the priest into accepting this new and unforeseen role of his, but it seems that for once Ragnar cannot simply argue or charm things his way.He even tried ordering Athelstan to remember, demanding it of him as his master -- that was a mistake.It didn't do anything except spook him into a corner until Gyda could coax him back out.

Likewise disastrous was the short-lived attempt to _seduce_ the memories out of him; Floki had laughed himself silly when, despite Ragnar's best tricks and most alluring voice, Athelstan had only stared at him in disbelief and said, delicately, "Please stop that _._ "

Not that Floki had been much help, with his insistence on the usefulness of sacred herbs and mushrooms.Actually viable ideas -- such things have been used before for religious rites and trances and Ragnar firmly believes in their power -- but they didn't have any on hand.Not even Floki, who would not have surprised Ragnar in the slightest if he'd pulled out a bag stuffed full and then admitted to having spiked their drinks.(It wouldn't be the first time.)  

"You think so highly of me," Floki said, chortling, when Ragnar asked."But I leave all of that safe at home, these days.You've got children."

Bjorn naturally objects to that, huffs and postures that he can handle whatever herbs Floki takes, and is no further use within his pouting.Athelstan is looking exhausted by that point anyway; sagging where he sits, leaning against the wall and faintly glassy-eyed.Gyda suggests letting him sleep and trying to talk to him _then_.Floki argues against it; Ragnar thinks he should sleep with Athelstan just to try it, which Athelstan rejects on the grounds of believing Ragnar just wants to sleep with him. (Not entirely false.)

And then, Lagertha speaks.

She has been watching, her pale brow knit slightly over sharp eyes, her lips pulled to a purse as each suggestion comes up, is argued, and then dismissed.And his wife, Ragnar's beautiful, capable wife, comes out with the most sensible thing he has heard all evening.(He forgets, sometimes, that while she is a fearsome shield-maiden and a demon in their bed, she is also a mother, and they are so often the wisest.) 

"Take him to Kattegat," she says."If he is meant to be a seer, who will know better than the Seer?"

They make arrangements to go in the morning.

\---

Floki leaves with them, as his home is on the way.Gyda and Bjorn and Lagertha see them off with bundles of food and words of caution; Ragnar takes the first gratefully and smirks at the last, his hand strong on Bjorn's shoulder, his lips pressing to the top of Gyda's head.Then he takes his wife around the waist and kisses her, long enough that Floki begins to leer and Athelstan turns away; the priest is red-faced by the time Ragnar comes up for air.It feels like the start of any other trip.

They set off.The morning shadows grow shorter; Ragnar trades stories with Floki to keep up companionable chatter.They cross a good distance at an easy pace, for the Vikings are men accustomed to journeys.Floki behaves himself surprisingly well, parting ways as they come close to his own home.He wishes them well, gives Ragnar a playful shove; fixes Athelstan with a look both long and thoughtful, only to shrug and leave them without another word.  

Travel with only Athelstan is much quieter.There is a tension; it reminds Ragnar of bringing him home, a frightened boy with a bald crown at the end of a rough rope leash.It strikes him, suddenly, that that was not so long ago, and he and Athelstan have not been left alone together since.

"You could have asked him to come with us the rest of the way, if it would have made you feel safer," Ragnar says, casual. "He might have even done it."

Athelstan flinches -- only a little, but Ragnar watches for such things, and Athelstan's gaze goes low rather than meet his eyes."Floki seemed eager to get to his home.I would not keep him from it."

"Not so much his home as he is eager for the woman waiting for him there, I should think."He narrows his eyes."So what is it that bothers you?The company?"

The priest blinks, turning his head to look at Ragnar as they walk."It's… no.No, of course not, Ragnar.I have no issue with either of you," he says."Though Floki does _tease_ a bit much.He means no harm by it.It is just his way, I think."

"True enough," Ragnar says.He's oddly pleased that Athelstan has made that observation on his own.Sometimes Floki seemed to say the word _priest_ like he was trying to spit out a sour taste, but Ragnar knew his men well enough to spot malicious intent, and in Floki there was none.If anything, since Floki realized that Athelstan seemed to be hearing (if not understand) the gods, he had taken almost _too much_ of an interest.It made Ragnar itch."So…?"

"It's Kattegat."Athelstan has a pinched look."I don't want to go there.There are too many people, and the way they look at me, I…"He presses his lips closed.Ragnar's eyes narrow, and he thinks of an earlier time: tugging at a rope, _Come,_ and the other's attention stolen, fixed on the hanging, battered corpses of two former companions."Kattegat is dangerous."

"No one is going to touch you, Athelstan.You belong to me."  

"I'm not thinking only of me, Ragnar.The _Jarl_ lives there.Does he not still target you?"

"Eh."Probably.Ragnar is not terribly concerned.

 _"Eh?_ Aren't you concerned that he or his men will try something, if they see just us in the town?"

"The Seer lives on the edge of Kattegat.Even if he learns of our visit, Haraldson won't try anything while we're there."He scratches at his hairline."It is a basic right of all people to meet with the Seer, to use his connection to the Gods.To try and stand in the way of that, or to prey on someone while they are there, would be like trying to stop the words and messages of the Gods.No one would dare."

Athelstan frowns a little; adorably bewildered with his furrowed brow."I… suppose that might make sense," he says."Does the Seer live alone?Or are there others who live near him?"

"Why?Kattegat is safe for you.The people will not harm you.What else is there to fear?"He gives him a nudge with his elbow -- gentle, but Athelstan still stumbles a little and offers a small glare in return.

"Because," the priest mumbles."They will _look_ at me…"

"You are nice to look at," Ragnar says, grinning."You cannot blame them.But you'll need to get used to each other eventually.You won't be staying at the farm all of the time.Besides," he says, lifting his arms above his head to stretch them, "Once you meet the Seer, I don't think the townsfolk will frighten you much."

"Why not?"

"Ha."He almost feels bad for him, but there's something about the shock value of introducing people to the Seer that Ragnar will never grow tired of."You'll understand when you see him."

\---

They stop for the night at a spot Ragnar deems safe enough; he sees Athelstan look around, always with that furrowed brow and serious little frown of his, perhaps trying to pinpoint what makes this stretch of ground safer than the others they'd already come through.It makes him smile and shake his head, needlessly fond.He feels a swell in his chest, equal measures possessive and protective.

His priest.His ridiculous, naive, lovely priest.  

He directs Athelstan to find good firewood as he strikes a rudimentary camp; a small pit dug for the fire, some rocks to line it.They will have hard bread and dried meat, and save the small sacks of nuts and shriveled fruit for the morning.Athelstan returns with a good load of wood as Ragnar divides out their dinner portions.They eat in silence.Athelstan watches the fire; Ragnar watches Athelstan.

He cannot quite decipher the priest's expression.At least, not until Athelstan finishes his bread and glances around for the bed rolls, and sees only the one. _That_ look, he knows.

"It still gets cold at night," Ragnar reminds him."It makes sense for any two travelers to share space.Why that face, Athelstan?Have I _ever_ forced myself on you?"

"No," softly.But he still eyes the single bedroll with a frown, and it deepens when he stands and his shirt -- Ragnar's technically, too large for Athelstna's slimmer frame -- slips down to reveal far too much collarbone and shoulder.Ragnar's eyes narrow, heated, and he knows that the other sees.The priest tugs the shirt back up with a quiet mutter (something along the lines of _give me strength_ ) and walks over to settle himself in the bedroll.The fire pops, loud, and he flinches as though the sound were a physical blow.

_You'd think I were leading him to a sacrifice, for all the drama._

When he settles in beside Athelstan, the priest rolls onto his side and curls in on himself a little.Ragnar merely scoots closer, up against his back.They've walked a long way; he knows the priest must be tired.The bedding grows warmer with their shared heat.It takes a while, but eventually he feels the body in front of his start to relax.

"Your hair is growing longer," he says, lifting a hand between them to brush gentle at the curls that lie above Athelstan's neck.Slight tension returns at the touch; he waits until it eases, and then touches again."I think I like it longer."

"I have no choice in the matter.You forbade me from keeping the tonsure."

"You would have carved your own scalp off, hacking at it like that."He gives a small tug."I think the decision was best for everyone.You look good with hair up there, the sun won't burn you, and Lagertha won't kill either of us for getting blood on all of the clothing."

There is quiet, and he wonders if Athelstan is asleep or insulted.He grins a little when the other suddenly says, "You say that as though your clothing doesn't get blood all over it on a regular basis."

"All the more reason to avoid it when we can. We are running low on shirts."

Athelstan shifts a little."On that subject… Thank you.For the clothing you and Lagertha have provided for me.You didn't need to."

Ragnar rolls his eyes and says nothing, quelling irritation at the idea that they would have left him in that scratchy, horrible robe (it had still stunk of fear and sweat and the sea; he'd burned it as soon as his priest took it off) or would have him stay around the farm naked.As though they treat him any less than a family member.He brushes the curls aside to study Athelstan's neck, his fingertips brushing against soft skin.There are no marks there from the rope.Ragnar had been sure to use a fine quality hemp, had used care to never tug too harshly or twist, to not let the rope chaff or drag against the other's throat and neck.It was a measure of care he doubts many other northmen would bother with.

Not that he expects Athelstan to thank him for that, of course.How would that conversation even go? _That time you ransacked my home and took me as a slave? Thank you for using the nice rope.That was great of you._

"Tell me," he says, his hand still resting against Athelstan's back, feeling the quiet thud of the other's heart, "Tell me about where you once lived.What was it like there?"

Athelstan takes a deep breath.His voice is low when he replies."What it _was_ hardly matters, now.Now it is ash and ruin."

"I would know," Ragnar says."It was a home, for you.Tell me what made it a home?"

"Why?"

 _Because I would have you feel at home with us,_ he doesn't say. _Because I want to know more about you, and I want you to tell me of your own will._ He simply waits.He knows the value of patience when dealing with skittish creatures.

The fire snaps again, and Athelstan takes in a quick breath."It… I have always lived by the sea," he says."As a child our home was near cliffs, and I could hear the waves at night.At Lindisfarne it was quieter, but if I stopped, if I held still, I could hear the ocean.The same sound, the same waves.The same water.As though … nothing in my life had changed, even though everything had."

"I, too, grew up by the sea," Ragnar says."A different shore, but the same water."

"Mmn."

"You live by the sea now," he says."Can you hear it, at our farm?Can you hear it from the house?Does it not soothe you?"He waits, and when there's no answer he gives Athelstan a little nudge.The priest remains quiet, though Ragnar can tell from his breathing that he's still awake.

Still -- no point in pushing.He's pleased enough with the conversation, and so he lets Athelstan be.In time, he falls asleep, his hand still against the priest's back, keeping guard on the even pace of his heart.

\---

Athelstan dreams.

He is standing on the shore of a foreign land, surrounded by things he does not recognize.The wind smells strange, and the sand beneath his bare feet is cold and ever shifting.Littering the beach are things washed up by the waves: dead husks of trees, curling shells, shattered broken boats.The sky is a muted violet-blue set with dark grey clouds.Lightning flickers between them.

Athelstan dreams of the day the world ended, when the sea threw demons onto their doorstep and his brothers choked on blood and steel.He watches it from a distance, from across the sea on this foreign shore.It all seems impossibly far away, but he can see every detail.He can hear every word.

He can hear words he should not, as well.Words that are hidden in-between the breeze and the still air, that make his head feel strange.He lifts his hands to cover his ears and he still hears them.  

 _I don't want this_ , he says. _I don't want you._

 _Do you think that matters?_ , the serpents reply.He is at the gate of a marvelous garden, the center of which stands a tall Tree.The fruit is knowledge of good and evil, and there is a man hanging from a high bough.He has but one eye.  

_No, no, no._

The water touches his bare toes, because he never left the shore.The waves creep higher; pulling back they leave behind a bloody foam that bubbles and pops.And footsteps -- there are footsteps.He thought he was alone.He follows them, heart pounding, to what he thought was a ruined tree.Drift wood.It is not.

Ragnar, sprawled on the beach sand, looking up at the sky with violet-blue eyes.The same color.One of them surely reflects the other, but Athelstan can't tell which.The Viking isn't moving, and Athelstan drops to his knees beside him, bends over and presses an ear to Ragnar's chest.For a long moment there is nothing.Then -- a rise and fall.A breath.He strains to hear a heartbeat, but there is only a low rushing sound, a gentle rhythm that he recognizes as the sound of the sea itself.He can hear the ocean in Ragnar's chest.  

_Does it not soothe you?_

He jerks back just as Ragnar reaches for him, the man is saying _Mine_ , and the voices in his mind are saying _Ours_ , and Athelstan wakes with a start, curled on his side on a patch of dark grass.Ragnar is pressed close behind him, holding him close, and it is warm, warm, warm.

 


End file.
